


In Tune

by me_inbetween



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Name is Ezra (Good Omens), M/M, Pianist Crowley, Piano Tuner Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28752405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/me_inbetween/pseuds/me_inbetween
Summary: Crowley is a Star Pianist that has been missing from the public eye for almost 5 years. Speculations over his long time away have made the rounds in the musical world and both the public and the media are very curious. For his comeback concert in the Royal Festival Hall, piano tuner and concert technician Ezra is supposed to help him out.This is inspired by the documentary "Pianomania" (which is in German, but I believe, English subtitles are available, should you care to watch it) and my recent obsession with Igor Levit.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Anxiety attack
> 
> If you wish to skip that, stop reading at "After that little warm up.." and continue after "I'm right here". 
> 
> This is a work in progress. I've only typed out the first chapter so far, because I'm really hoping for some feedback. I do have a pretty good idea though, where this story is going.  
> 

Ezra Fell was about to enter his workplace for the week. Showing up at 7am on a Monday morning at a venue was nothing out of the ordinary, as was staying way past midnight if some last minute adjustments were necessary. Being the head piano tuner and technician for Steinway & Sons in London certainly had its perks but it also brought him a very erratic work schedule. Best not to talk about his sleep schedule at all.  
Even still, at nearly forty, Ezra was precisely where he wanted to be. Which currently was on his way into Royal Festival Hall, to prepare the piano for the rehearsal of Mr. Crowley. The man had requested his private rehearsal for 8am, a time most musicians wouldn’t even have lifted their duvet covers yet. 

Mr. Crowley was to perform Beethoven’s piano concerto No.2 on Friday night together with the London Philharmonic Orchestra. It was going to be his comeback concert after having been missing from the musical scene (and the public for that matter) without any explanation for almost 5 years. The anticipation and curiosity surrounding this concert and consequently Mr. Crowley's long absence had been palpable in the scene and media for days now. After not having been in the spotlight for so long, rumors and speculations were going crazy.  
And although Ezra would not deny to be curious about the musicians absence, the dramatic headlines and the whispered gossip seemed a little drastic and invasive for his taste. 

On his way into the hall, getting his ID card updated for the week from the security guard at the artists entrance, he overheard a few snippets of a hushed conversation between some members of the orchestra.

“... told me, he’s been in a psychiatric facility for the better part of those 5 years.”

“S’what they say about geniuses, right? Always on the verge of crazy..”

With an exasperated sigh, Ezra moved past the little group.

“Really now!”, he muttered under his breath. He found himself angry and frustrated on behalf of a musician he had yet to meet. Could people not mind their own business? The artist had probably had very good reasons for not being in the public eye for so long.

Upon entering the concert hall, Ezra took a moment to take in the atmosphere. This was where he felt at home. The room was mostly dark, only the stage was illuminated with working lights. For the moment the only thing on it was the beautiful sleek black grand piano. Chairs for the orchestra would only be brought in after Mr. Crowley's private rehearsal for the first meeting between orchestra, conductor and the soloist tomorrow evening. 

Ezra made his way up to the stage, set down his tools and got to work. He started tuning the piano that had spent the better part of the last month stashed in a storage room. Upon preliminary examination he decided he really needed to get on with it, otherwise he would never finish in time for Mr. Crowley’s arrival.  
While working diligently, Ezra couldn’t help but wonder, what the elusive Mr. Crowley would be like. Would he have outrageous requests? Would he be able to make up his mind on how his piano should sound? Would he be demanding and rude? Being in the business for a little over 15 years now, he’d met his fair share of weird personas. There had been that sleek American with the pretentious cashmere scarf, who had him clean the keyboard compulsively every 10 minutes. Or the round guy in the ill-fitting brown suit, who for the life of him could not articulate what he wanted and who got mad at Ezra for not figuring it out regardless. Or the tiny person in all black, who smelled like they did their laundry in a bucket of sewer water. Dinner that week had just not been the same. He was still a little nauseous, whenever he thought about them. Very skilled player though. 

A little lost in thought, Ezra startled when he heard the distinct creak of the halls hinged doors. He was currently lying on his back under the piano, making last minute adjustments and checking the pedals. Crawling out in the open and coming to a stand next to the piano, he shielded his eyes with his hand. In the door stood a tall, lanky man. He seemed uncertain and hesitant. Ezra reached to retrieve his pocket watch to check the time. 8 o’clock on the dot. Well, that really left only one option. 

“Is that you, Mr. Crowley? Do come in and close the door if you please.”

The man seemed momentarily stunned but then must have made up his mind and stepped fully inside, closing the door softly behind him. He then walked slowly down the center aisle up to the stage. Observing the man move through the sparsely lit room, Ezra was able to make out 3 things. Firstly, the man wore an entirely black ensemble consisting of very tight jeans, a soft looking henley and a smart blazer. The outfit was completed with expensive looking boots with a slight heel and dark horn rimmed sunglasses. Secondly, his shoulder length hair had a fiery red color. Half of it was being held up in a messy bun. And thirdly, he was very attractive.

*

The thing was… The thing was, Crowley was nervous. This would be the first concert he’d be giving in 5 years. Luckily his agent had procured him a joint concert with the London Philharmonic Orchestra so at least he would not have to go solo for his comeback. Beethoven was one of his favorites and the Piano Concerto No.2 with his influences of the First Viennese School was a sort of comfort piece for Crowley, it always has been. 

He had been preparing for this day for half a year now. And if he was being honest with himself, the source of his anxiety was not the concert itself. Being on stage used to give him a rush, that was quite incomparable to anything else. It was the socializing, the interactions with the orchestra, the conductor and the press, that had him all tied up in knots. It was why he had insisted on a whole week of preparation. To ease him into it. For today, he really only needed to visit the hall, get a feel for the acoustics and for the piano he would be playing on. He had set up the rehearsal for 8am, which was admittedly a little earlier then he would usually go for. But he was very much hoping to not run into any musicians just yet and to avoid the Maestro at least until he had sorted out the piano situation. Baby steps. 

The only person he was supposed to meet today was the piano tuner. Crowley sincerely hoped the man was not put out by the time of day. His experience with piano tuners was not very extensive. When he started to give smaller concerts, as a teenager, there was never a tuner around to help him out. As his career started to gain traction it was more commonly offered to him to have a tuner on site for his rehearsals. However it always struck him as flashy and unnecessary so often he reclined. By the time he was in his late twenties he had reached proper stardom in the musical scene and it was almost expected of him to have very specific needs and quirks. 

And it wasn’t that he did not have said quirks or special preferences, Crowley just did not see them as requirements to his performance rather than an usually unobtainable optimum of circumstances. In his opinion, a pianist and “his” tuner rather had to have an understanding of each other. They really had to be on the same wavelength, otherwise not much would come of it. To this date Crowley had not met a single tuner, who’d actually understood what he wanted. Quite on the contrary, on more than one occasion he had gotten the distinct impression of not being welcome and had felt more like a burden rather than someone you’d try to accustom.  
So when Royal Festival Hall had insisted on providing him with Mr. Fell of Steinway & Sons for his first rehearsal, it only helped further his anxiety. 

He had woken up this morning at about 5:30am and immediately his mind went fretting about just anything that could possibly go wrong with this week. At 6 he decided he might as well get up, because there was just no way he was going back to sleep. So he made himself a double espresso and went about his morning routine. With time on his hands before he had to leave, Crowley decided to play on the baby grand in his living room. A little Chopin always did remarkable things to his mental health. And alas, when Prelude Op. 28 No.6 wafted into the room from underneath his fingers, a small part of his anxiety settled. 

By the time he got to Royal Festival Hall, that small part of tranquility had subsided again. The porter had eyed him up and down disapprovingly and a grumpy raggedy man named Shawell had accompanied him all the way to the concert hall while muttering angry nonsense under his breath. He’d left him without even opening the door. Well, he supposed this was the moment he’d meet Mr. Fell. His unsettled nerves were making his hands shake slightly, when he pressed the door handle down carefully. The hinged doors creaked loudly and Crowley cringed. He had rather hoped to make a quiet entrance, maybe give himself an opportunity to observe before engaging. 

“Is that you, Mr. Crowley? Do come in and close the door if you please.”

A soft voice carried through the room and when his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, he saw him. Up on the stage right next to the piano stood a man about his age. He had white blond curly hair and was dressed from head to toe in cream and taupe. Crowley took a few reluctant steps down the aisle and when he came closer, he could see the man was wearing a waistcoat over his linen shirt, complete with an honest to God pocket watch. That certainly wasn’t what he’d been expecting. 

“Nnnyeah, hi.” Nice, smooth, very aloof. He jumped up on the stage. “You’re Mr. Fell?”

“Oh yes, that would certainly be me, Mr. Crowley. But please, do call me Ezra. I’m looking forward to working with you this week!”, the man exclaimed excitedly. He genuinely seemed pleased to see him, when he extended his hand out to him. 

“Just Crowley, if it’s all the same to you,” he said, taking Ezras hand. Calloused, but soft nonetheless, huh. 

“Of course, whatever you like best, Crowley.” The man flashed a smile his way, that was blinding in its sincerity. “Well then,” he said, clasping his hands together, “shall we get started?” Seriously, who is that happy on a Monday morning?

“Right, f’course”, Crowley said. He made his way over to the piano, running a hand over the side and then reverently sitting down on the bench. “Aren’t you a beauty”, he whispered softly, when he laid his hands on the keys for the first time.  
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ezra moving to the edge of the stage, sitting down and watching expectantly. When Crowley shot him an inquiring look over his shoulder, his mouth lifted into a reassuring little smile. 

With a sudden calmness he had not been feeling just minutes ago, he ran through a couple of scales to get a feeling for the instrument. The sound was lovely, well in tune and quite rich but balanced in the overtones. However he did not appreciate just how much force it required to produce the tones. Crowley usually preferred a softer touch, it gave him more to work with and it was easier on his hand. But he would make do.

After that little warm up, he actually started to have a go at what he’d be performing on Friday. Humming along the relevant parts of the orchestra he tried his hand at the third movement of the piece. However, the way the piano was reacting, he was not able to both get to his desired speed and produce nice and well rounded tones at the same time. He could feel his composure starting to slip. After stumbling over the same part for the fourth time, he felt his anxiety creeping back in. “Oh for fucks sake!”, he exclaimed, before remembering that he was not in fact at home in his living room but on a stage with another person. His vision got a little blurry around the edges. He could feel his heart beating way too hard and his ears were ringing. He closed his eyes, fighting hard to focus on slowing down his breathing. 

*

Ezra had expected Crowley to let him know about some necessary changes right away. Pianists were usually quite particular and would let him know the instant they were not satisfied. However the redhead did not stop to give commentary. Instead he ran through some scales. Ezra could see from the expression on Crowley's face, that something was bothering him. Something in the way the piano worked did not quite line up with his way of playing, he could actually hear it. But rather than explaining or asking Ezra for help, he then jumped right into some parts from the concerto. His increasing irritation was palpable. And just when Ezra had decided to intervene and offer some options to fix the issue, he let out an exasperated swear. Only then did he seem to remember that the tuner was still in the room, which apparently launched him right into a panic attack.

Ezra practically jumped up and made his way over to the piano in fast strides. Squatting down next to the piano bench, he softly called to him. The artist was shaking and was clearly having trouble breathing.

“Crowley?...”

“Crowley, can you hear me?” The tiniest, almost imperceptible nod. “It’s alright, dear. You’re safe here, I promise. It’s just you and me here, no one else.”

Another tiny nod. Ezra couldn’t bear it. 

“Can you try and breathe slowly for me? Deep breath in for 1, 2, 3, 4, hold for 1, 2, 3, 4, out for 1, 2, 3, 4. That right, you’re doing fantastic, keep going, I’m right here.”

The man visibly put a lot of effort in following Ezras instructions. He took several measured breaths with the tuner murmuring soothing nonsense into the quiet of the room. After some minutes Crowley let out the smallest sigh of relief and then slit from the bench to the floor. With his back on one of the legs of the piano he tipped his head back with his eyes closed and continued the deep breaths. Ezra sat down on the floor next to him and just started talking.

“Did you know how I got to be a piano tuner? Well, I can tell you, it was quite the journey. I come from a very big family of scholars and academics. With both my mother and father being professors at Oxford, big expectations were had for their 5 children. Two of my siblings went into the convent, my sister Michael is on her way to earn tenure as a History professor and my oldest brother Gabriel is a Bishop. Only I never really fit in.” Ezra gave himself a small pause, swallowing some of the bitterness that filled him whenever thinking about his youth.

“Music has always had a much more substantial draw for me than any other profession or art. When I was 5, I begged my parents to let me learn how to play the piano. They must have become tired of my whining, because I got a small second hand upright piano and weekly lessons. I was delirious. All of my freetime went into learning and practising. I snuck out of bible study on Sunday so many times they must have lost count.”

“When it came to choosing what to do with my life, my parents made it very clear that a career in music was not something they would be supporting financially. It was either Religion or Academia. Both those options seemed to me like they would have been my death from the inside out.  
When I refused to conform to their ideas, they kicked me out. I was 18 at the time.”

At that, Crowley made a small noise of disgust and outrage.

“Not to worry, dear boy. I was very lucky, as my piano teacher put me in touch with an older Lady who took me in almost free of charge. Madame Tracy really saved me then. I found a job as a waiter and managed to secure a stipend for the Royal Academy of Music.” Crowley’s head lifted in interest. 

“My teachers seemed to think I had a promising career in music.” Ezra smiled softly at the memories of his days at the Academy. Days filled with piano practise and music theory and like-minded peers. 

“Oh, so if I fail to get myself together by Friday, you can just play my part. Brilliant!”, Crowley exclaimed, a tiny smirk playing around his shiny lips. Was the man wearing lipgloss?

Ezra huffed a little self-deprecating laugh. “Heavens no!” 

He could see a questioning eyebrow rise above the sunglasses.

“Well, I suppose I haven’t yet explained how I ended up as a tuner instead of playing on the stages of the world”, Ezra muttered.

“As it turned out, I was quite simply not able to perform on stage. I never realized, since my parents had always quashed each and every opportunity for me to actually play for an audience, but I have terrible stage fright. Luckily I caught onto it before I actually went on a public stage. At the end of the second semester, all piano students had to perform in a sort of concert for the Academy. When it was my turn, I just could not breath, let alone move. I never went on stage. I turned, I went home and cried. And then I tried a whole nother semester to convince myself that an audience would not change anything. Unsuccessfully, as you might have guessed.”

“One of my more understanding professors suggested a different career, that was more behind the scenes and as luck had it, Steinway was searching for an apprentice. I applied, got the job and it turned out to have been a great decision. Sure spares me a lot of anxiety and I still get to be around musicians, all the wonderful music and the very special atmosphere that a concert hall gets in the last minutes before a show begins.”

Ezras throat was a little dry after this monologue. He got up and got a bottle of water from his messenger bag. After drinking some of it he wordlessly offered the bottle to Crowley.  
The artist accepted it with a nod and took some tentative sips, small and measured.  
Ezra felt quite vulnerable and open. He rarely shared that story let alone with practical strangers. But it seemed to have done the trick to take the pianist's mind out of immediate anxiety. And there was just something about that lanky, handsome man, that made him want to bare his soul. He decided not to examine that feeling too closely right now. This was not about him. 

A comfortable silence settled between the two men. Crowley was still leaning back against the piano, taking small sips of water every now and then. 

It could have been minutes or hours, when Crowley suddenly took off his sunglasses. His amber eyes pierced Ezras soul or that’s what it felt like at least. 

“You didn’t have to do that”, the redhead said, looking right at him.

Ezra shrugged and offered a small smile. 

“How about I buy you lunch?”

“Little early for lunch, don’t you think, my dear”, Ezra offered after a glance on his pocket watch, drawing an amused smile on Crowley's lips.

“Brunch then.”


	2. Chapter 2

Brunch was nice. Crowley had suggested a little french style bistro. Currently they had croissants and a couple of other pastries and some savoury sandwiches on the table between them. Crowley was nursing a cup of black coffee, while Ezra stirred some more milk into his Earl Grey. Conversation had been flowing easily between the two men, about music, about pianos and the latest up and coming artists. 

Crowley was slightly bemused. He’d been expecting all sorts of personal questions, about his career or his mysterious 5 year absence and maybe about the panic attack. But Ezra seemed very content to just discuss whatever topic the redhead would bring up next. Crowley tried to remember the last time he had felt so at ease with someone he’d met just a couple of hours ago. It felt oddly freeing and light, but it also made him uncertain.

“Aren’t you gonna ask about before?” Shit, shitshitshit, why would he bring that up now? He didn’t even want to talk about it. 

Ezra looked up from the sandwich he had been nursing for the last 10 minutes. His eyes twinkled with silent amusement.

“Did you actually want to talk about it?”, he asked pointedly.

“Well,.. nggk, ‘sjusttha..” Wow, eloquent. You’re doing amazing, sweetie. “No, no’really.”

“Alright my dear, then I believe that matter is quite off the table, wouldn’t you say?”

Again with the my dear. 

Before Crowley could say anything though, Ezra primly patted his mouth with a napkin and continued speaking.

“I will however ask, what is the matter with the piano.”

“What’dyu mean?”

“Oh come now. You were very clearly not happy or comfortable with the way it was performing. As it were, it’s my job to ensure that exactly that does not happen. It is rather difficult though, if you’re not actually telling me what’s wrong.” A smug little smirk was playing around the tuners lips.

Crowley frowned. “It’s nothing really. I can handle it.”

“Yes, clearly.”

“Oi!”

“Crowley. You’ve got to tell me what the issue is. How else do you expect me to fix it?” Ezra let out in an exasperated huff.

“I DON’T, OK?” Some heads turned their way at his outburst. “Shit! Sorry.. The thing is, I don’t. I don’t expect you to fix it. This whole tuner business. Not once has that worked out for me! Nobody ever understood what I was saying”, Crowley said in a much smaller voice. And then, almost a whisper, “Nobody ever does.”

Silence laid between them after his outburst. When he gathered the courage to look up, he could see a stricken look on Ezra's face. The man suddenly fetched his wallet and put a couple of notes on the table.

“Come on, let’s get back to the hall dear”, the tuner softly said, as he got up and put his coat on.

*

Ezra felt shaken. Crowley's emotional reaction in the café had made him properly angry and he had a hard time containing himself. He prided himself in being very good in his profession. In his opinion, a good tuner should not only have a way with the mechanical side of things but first and foremost needed a feeling for people. Artists often had very unique ways of expressing themselves. It was a tuners job to translate, so to speak. The fact that apparently for the entirety of Crowley's career not a single tuner or concert technician had understood him, made him doubt quite a lot of his colleagues. 

It seemed to have left the pianist with a strong reluctance to ask for changes in his instrument. He would rather play on anyway, working himself right into an anxiety attack instead. Ezra had the very strong urge to show Crowley just how easy it could be.

All this went through his head as he led the both of them back to the Festival Hall. He could see Crowley throwing slightly confused side glances at him, while they briskly walked towards the building. 

Back in the hall, he climbed back up on stage and gestured for the other man to follow. Without any preamble he got to it. They had lost enough time already.

“Have a seat”, he said, “and play a scale, please.”

Crowley sat down, but he looked thoroughly out of his depth by now. Ezra closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose and let it out through his mouth. When he opened his eyes again, the pianist was watching him intently from behind his shades.

“I apologize, Crowley”, Ezra said, “Hearing that not one tuner ever has understood what you wanted made me rather sad. I would very much like to help you.”

He took another deep, grounding breath.

“Now, if you could do me a favour and play a scale, any scale.”

Crowley obliged and Ezra watched long, nimble fingers move over the keyboard in b-flat major. 

“Alright, thank you. Now, can you describe, what sounds good to you and what does not?”

Instead of answering, the pianist played the same scale again and from there launched into an improvisation. He tilted his head ever so slightly sideways as if to hear better and from the side Ezra could see his eyes were closed behind the glasses. The melody was beautiful. It felt very different from what you would expect from a guy basically dressed like a rockstar.  
The tones floated softly through the room, wavering in a lighthearted cadence but then suddenly becoming more intent and urgent. Ezra couldn’t help but stare at the beautiful man with uncontained awe. 

He was thoroughly enraptured and only came to when the music gently faded. Climbing his way back to the present, he found Crowley looking right back at him with an amused smirk on his face. Ezras cheeks turned a bright pink immediately and he cleared his throat.

“Well?”

“Nkgg… ‘kay so. I like the sound. ‘s well rounded, enough depth in the lower keys and nice clarity in the high notes.”

“Lovely. So that’s not it then, is it?”

Crowley looked at him blankly.

“Something is obviously bothering you. And if it’s not the sound, then it must be the handling.” 

“Weyeah’s the keys ‘mselves,” Crowely mumbled. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“The keys... th’re too hard to press.. need too much force to produce a proper tone. My hand can’t handle it.”

Ezra could not help the brilliant smile that crept on his face. He felt so pleased, that the man had made a first attempt to actually communicate.

“Oh, see that is really no problem. Make some room for me, will you, and I will have it fixed in two shakes of a lamb's tail,” he said brightly.

And with that started two hours of trial and error, in which Ezra made some adjustments and then asked Crowley for his opinion, asking for very specific details and descriptions. Together they not only figured out the best configuration for this specific piano but Ezra was also sure that the redhead would be much more comfortable explaining his needs to a different tuner in the future. 

After they had found a configuration that worked well for Crowley, Ezra had taken out his notebook and made meticulous notes about the piano, the tone they had created and the kind of keystroke the pianist preferred. It was part of Ezra's process and the key to his success in the industry. It was his ability to anticipate the needs of his clients and to recreate the configurations of an earlier session, that made him a very sought after tuner.

They had then agreed to meet back here the following day after at 2pm to have enough time before the evening rehearsal with the whole orchestra. Crowley stayed behind to practise some more with the now adjusted piano.

By the time Ezra left the Concert Hall, it was well into the afternoon. He made a quick call to move his evening appointment to the next morning. However rewarding the time with the pianist had been, it had also drained him. First the emotional toll of the panic attack, then the anger at all his colleagues who had failed to listen to Crowley and lastly 2 hours of working in excruciating detail left him hungry, tired and in dire need for a glass of red and a nice book.

*

Crowley felt elated and a little dazed. That man was a literal angel. He had been a sure and grounding presence during his panic attack instead of telling him to just get over it already. He had calmed him down, offered him water and distracted him with his life story. He had somehow paid for lunch even though Crowley wanted to invite him. He’d gone all grumpy, dark cloud after hearing about his struggles with tuners in the past. And then he had taken more than 2 hours to listen to Crowley's uneducated babbling and to fix all the issues he’d had with the piano.  
After the man had left, Crowley had spent a significant amount of time actually rehearsing his parts. It was damn near perfect now, he could hardly believe it.

His head clearly wasn’t in the right place again just yet, because the next thing he knew, he was sitting in a small italian-style restaurant waiting for his manager to turn up for their meeting. The door opened with a gust of wind and his manager Bee entered the room in brisk steps. 

Plopping down on the bench opposite of him, they had a scowl on their face. 

“You’re smiling,” they said accusingly.

“Hello Bee, nice to see you. How’re you doing?”

“Yeah, yeah, wassup,” they waved their hand dismissively. “Seriously, you’re smiling. What’s that about?”

“What? Maybe I’m just having a good day.”

“Crowley, no offense, but you have been stressing about this whole event in general and today in particular for a little over two weeks at this point. I was very much prepared to pick you up somewhere hours ago and subsequently cancel all planned appearances for the foreseeable future.” 

“Mhnyeah, point taken, I guess.”

“So? Are you gonna tell me?”

Crowley wasn’t really sure if he was ready to share, but Bee had been his manager/life coach/best friend for the better part of his adult life now and they had been putting up with him and his anxiety forever but especially since he had decided to work on a comeback. They deserved to know.

“The piano tuner, Fell… He’s a literal angel.”

“Sorry, what?” Bees face twisted in an almost comical mix of disbelieve and amusement.

“The concert technician that met me there to tune the piano, he is.. Hell Bee, I can’t even explain.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is only my third work ever, so I'd really appreciate it, if you let me know what you think in the comments or with Kudos if you feel like it. 
> 
> Also, English is not my mother language so if you catch any typos or things that down't make sense, do let me know!


End file.
